


7.62 NATO Red

by father (joursdenfantsmorts)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, Comeplay, Dark Clint Barton, Dark Phil Coulson, Kind of dark, M/M, Marking, Murder Kink, Possessive Behavior, black ops, ok fine, potentially unsafe sexual practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joursdenfantsmorts/pseuds/father
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint like-likes Agent Coulson. Clint's dick like-likes Agent Coulson, but also Clint's pretty killshots. Clint can't decide if it's a problem.</p><p>Pre-avengers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been systematically reading my way through all the C/C works in this fandom because spec ops and alphabet soup agencies have always been My Genre. Last week I figured, hell, why don't I try my hand at porn? with spec ops? This fic is why. Because apparently everything I write has to be just a little screwed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd.

Clint squints through the heat waves at the marketplace two thousand feet away, matte black M40A6 and its glinting scope resting on the wall beside him until the time is near. He set up his nest an hour ago on the fifth floor of a construction site, in the light shade of a concrete awning; if he stays for thirty more minutes, the flames of the equatorial sun will begin to reach into the building and he'll get a shitty sunburn where his gloves end. For now, he's just relaxing and pretending he's vacationing in a Central American high-rise skeleton in the middle of July, not sweating his balls off because a gun runner with no sense of self-preservation thought Guatemala was a great place to set up base.

A mild breeze pushes the plastic tarps in from the window, brushing the floor in soft sweeps. Clint scratches at the cooling sweat on the bridge of his nose.

The op is low-risk but circumstance dictates that both he and his handler are on the ground, so Coulson is holed up in the corner of a moderately busy cafe two blocks west with his back to the wall. The Guatemalan police don't care that people are killed all the time in this country but God forbid SHIELD steps on the toes of the local powers-that-be, so they've opted to work without seeking the cooperation of the government. In and out, like they were never there– nobody to corroborate any stories and no one to be held accountable.

Clint sees the mark the moment he and his obnoxious yellow shirt stroll into the plaza. He taps the open comm on his ear as a heads-up before reporting in. "Target sighted sir, eagerly awaiting orders."

"Copy that," Coulson replies. Then, silence.

Clint knows Coulson's probably double-checking all of the video feeds and their extraction profile, just to be sure, but he might also be fucking with Clint.

After six minutes, the mark has finished two conversations and a stick of grilled vegetables and Clint knows Coulson's fucking with him. He's a career sniper, best in every outfit he's ever worked in. He can wait the Army man out. Except it's fucking hot and he doesn't actually need to, so fuck that.

"Sir, everything alright?" he says in the snottiest voice he can manage. "You know which button to push to turn the laptop on?"

Coulson snorts, a tumble of static on the line. "Good to see your famed endurance rear its elegant head."

Ouch, right in the reputation. Clint pouts indulgently, knowing Coulson'll catch it.

A muffled scrape and some tinny background chatter leak through the comm. It's so familiar that Clint can almost see Coulson getting ready to react before he gives the go-ahead.

"Proceed at your discretion, Agent."

"Sir, yes sir," Clint pipes, and settles his rifle into place on the windowsill. He'll keep the scope lens covered until he's ready to fit the stock against his shoulder and fire; his eyes are good enough for recon in this light. He does a final brief once-over of the room and his gun. Everything's in place. He watches the mark wander around, positioning his finger off the trigger while the man finds a less inconvenient position to die in. It's a bit of a wait, clay pigeons can be dense like that.

Frankly, Clint thinks as he chambers a round, Coulson might be cutting it a little close with this much visibility. Clint went out last night in another city twenty miles away himself, cruising to take the edge off like always. He doesn't need anyone who eyeballed the muscled gringo prowling around bars and getting fucked in the bathroom somewhere making intelligent connections after Clint messes this guy up today.

Speaking of which– he's still loose from getting reamed and his hips have great bruises, but he's worried it won't help as much as he needs it to because it's been four months since his last kill order. He's worried he'll pull the trigger and watch the target's head jerk with that shiny red glimmer and get too blindingly hard to do anything but try to take care of his aching dick, like the psycho he's trying really fucking hard not to be nowadays. It's worse when the mission directives say to make a statement, because then he uses hollow points and the gore drives him absolutely insane.

Coulson never asks questions when Clint opts to take a cool five minutes off comms after wetworks jobs like this; Clint's pretty sure Coulson thinks he's doing some sort of post-op ritual like some of the other guys do, something equally private but probably milder than rubbing one out while replaying his own killshots in mind's eye. Clint would very much like to keep it that way. He'll never admit that he comes the hardest when he jerks off to the thought of Coulson shoving his face into the cold concrete floors of his nests when he's high off a kill and fucking him like there's nothing he can't take.

Clint watches the shuffling steps the mark makes to pass the four additional minutes he apparently needs to get his ass seated on a bus stop bench under the shade of a tree, then hunkers down and takes the shot. Half a second later a hole appears in the target's eyebrow and the man's eyes unfocus. Clint doesn't see him slump sideways; no, he's too busy trying to get his pants off, too desperate to reach his fucking cock. He has the presence of mind to pull his rifle down with him so the glare of the scope doesn't catch some do-gooder's attention and screw him over, but that's the extent to which his brain can process wrap-up procedures now.

A single shout of alarm goes up in the noisy courtyard as someone notices the dead man and he finally manages to get the waistband halfway down his thighs, cupping his balls with a sigh of relief. He doesn't hear any more ruckus– Coulson's got it under control– so he puts the op out of his mind. Mm, Coulson in control is fucking hot. He shifts his hips and moans quietly when he feels the burn in his ass.

It didn't work. Of course it didn't work. 'Fucked' seems to be a general state of being for Clint Barton.

He takes his right glove off, spits in his hand, and starts to strip his cock, hunched over on his knees under the windowsill and panting shallow breaths. It won't be long. He figures he looks like he's praying from the back, except for the fact that his asscheeks are hanging out and his right arm is moving a mile a minute. He shoves his other hand up his tac suit top and slides it through the holy matrimony of sweat and Under Armour to squeeze his nipple. He whimpers and bites his lip, calloused fingers clenching tight around his cock. God that feels good. He's almost there. He thinks of Coulson's dick filling up his sore ass and the glistening spurt of the mark's brains slopping out through the eight millimeter hole in his skull and comes, pumping his hips forwards with a pathetic little "ohhh, fuck me sir" and striping his hand and the inside of his pants.

He slumps on the floor and takes two, then cleans up and heads towards the extraction point.

\--

He drops by Coulson's office the next day to hand off his field report and some sweet, sweet iced coffee. Clint flexes his arms when he sets the cup down. He does it in the vain hopes that Coulson might one day notice, find it unbearably sexy, and demand to have him over the desk.

The room is a fucking oven. Clint side-eyes the little tape strip hanging from the ventilation grate in the ceiling– no air movement. Coulson looks distracted in his stone-faced way and a little flushed when he sees Clint. Probably because he's sitting in the middle of his hotbox office, which is a hotbox. Now that Clint thinks of it, Coulson was kind of out of it on the flight back last evening as well. At least the man's jacket is off and his sleeves are rolled up.

Clint remembers the transit authority poster he always passes on the way to Coulson's favourite coffee shop– see something, say something. Clint can be a good boy.

"You should turn on the AC, boss." He waits patiently for a response. Coulson's eyes refocus on Clint and narrow like he's just remembered someone's in his office. Then he looks hard at the temperature controls on the other side of the room and grimaces a little. Clint decides to take it as agreement. Primary directive (field report) and secondary directive (Indirect Coulson Care) achieved, he throws out a jaunty salute and hops off to the responsibly air-conditioned gym.

\--

When the door finally closes, Coulson swears and futilely presses the heel of his hand down on the rapidly swelling tent in his slacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone forgot to sign off the comms hahaha


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short chapter

Three weeks later, they have an op in Burma. It's good news, falling short of being great news because it's also fucking hot in Burma at this time of the year and Clint would really appreciate something a little more reasonable, thanks. But it's good news because white men prowling around town don't raise quite as many eyebrows as he thinks it should (he has large issues of a moral nature with this particular fact, see his resumé, but it undeniably helps him, Clint Barton, Subtle Assassin) and because shooting human traffickers makes Clint feel good. You know, beyond the fact that he gets off on shooting people. Fifteen years and he still can't make it stop. He hasn't said anything to SHIELD Psych, but if he did he imagines they'd tell him it's because he doesn't really want it to stop. Imaginary-Psych is right, Clint doesn't want to talk about it, end of conversation.

The two ringleaders he's meant to deliver unto being dead have been placed by Intelligence in Rangoon. Further intel once he and Coulson hit the ground says that the two men will be lunching at an open-air bar in Bahan Township, where one of the ringleaders lives. He's scoped out the place and it puts his circus boy hairs on end because it's fancy schmancy and more pretentious than he ever had any money for. The 80's vibe and the Kurt Cobain poster inside make him wonder off-hand if sleazy patrons dying of gunshot wounds on the premises might possibly be considered positive publicity.

There's sizeable expat population whose bars Clint sets out to trawl the night before the op for a good, hard fuck. He sets off after his recon run, taking out some eyeliner on the way to the first venue and applying it at a stoplight, using the reflecting glass of a midnight mart. It's more of an indulgence than anything else; he thinks he'll be able to calm himself down, he's getting back into the groove of it and he's really just cruising because being in prolonged close quarters with an under-dressed Coulson is driving him insane. He can't decide whether he should curse the heat or appreciate it for how it helps contribute to his spank bank.

He moves through two places and one okay beer that he sneaks past the second bouncer before he finds someone he thinks he wants for a round in the back. He's of middling age, thin but muscular, bland American face, sharp blue eyes and brown hair. Yes, Clint cruises for Coulson look-alikes, he knows it looks kind of pathetic but he's actually totally fine with it. Sue him, he has a type. A really specific type.

He catches the man's eye and holds his gaze for a smooth second, then turns towards the bar to grab another beer. He pops the cap, takes a swig and arches his spine, stretching his neck muscles a bit and letting the peaks of his hard nipples show through his thin shirt, then leans forward with his arms flexing on the wood bar so his back curves like an runway towards where his ass is perched on the edge of the seat. He glances back occasionally between sips to make eyes in the dim light and feels gratified when the man eventually slips into the chair beside him and flags the bartender down for a beer. Never let it be said that Clint doesn't know how to utilise his assets.

The corner of the Coulson look-alike's lips curl minutely when he eyes Clint's arms.

God, Clint thinks. He even has a similar smile. He can't wait to get this guy in bed.

Clint shifts to give the other man a better view and yes, the bulge in the guy's seersucker shorts certainly seems like interest. Not-Coulson looks back up, clearly content with watching a little longer. Man after his own heart. Clint subtly swipes the rim of the beer bottle with his tongue while keeping eye contact. He slips the tip of his tongue into the bottle neck just a bit, eyes at half mast. Dilated pupils, check.

Clint brings the beer down and licks his lips. "Gonna buy me a drink, sweetheart?"

The man somehow manages to give Clint a predatory smile without actually moving his face.

"Is that what you want?" He's got an Australian accent. Of course he's got an Australian accent. It's deeper and scratchier than Coulson's but definitely not unpleasant; Clint scans him quickly for a pack of cigarettes and is rewarded with a carton of Luckies in the man's left pocket. There's also a tattoo of the name 'Elliot' under his open collar and black TAG Heuer Grand Carrera on his right wrist– actually a financier sweating it out in Burma, Clint guesses, unlike Coulson and his misleading brand-name accoutrements.

He checks the guy's body out, not bothering to hide the movement of his gaze. He certainly looks like he can hold Clint down for a little bit, and he's left handed. Nothing like switching it up once in a while.

Clint leans forwards, speaking over an ill-timed surge in background noise. "Nah. Not really," he croons. "Wanna bounce?"

Yes, the guy wants to bounce, and no, he doesn't want to screw Clint in the back alley because he lives a block away. "Fair enough," Clint replies with a grin, "I enjoy getting fucked in a bed just as well." The guy has a nice laugh.

No one gives them a second glance when they slip out into the muggy night.

They're halfway down the crowded street, bumping shoulders and necking breathlessly before Clint snakes an arm under the guy's shirt to palm his abs and asks, "What do I call you, handsome?"

He shivers and responds, "Anything you like, gorgeous."

Clint preens because he really doesn't get called gorgeous enough, but refuses to make up a name for his one night stand, who the fuck does that? He could always call him Phil, but, you know. Awkward.

"No, really. I might end up screaming someone else's name into the pillow but give me something to work with."

"Oh." The man looks a little put out. "My name's Matthew, if that helps."

"Fine by me." Clint raises an eyebrow. "Did you want to call me Elliot?"

Matthew stiffens, but catches himself and touches the name on his collarbone with a free hand. He smiles self-consciously. Yeah, he wanted to call Clint Elliot.

"You can call me Elliot, sweetcheeks." Clint smirks through his non-existent eyelashes. "I'm okay with him getting all the credit." The teasing lilt at the end of that lightens the atmosphere right back up. Mmhm, Clint can definitely be Elliot.

\--

Right before they step into the foyer of Matthew's building, Clint thinks he sees a familiar silhouette under the canopy of the cafe across the street and for a moment he can't breathe. There's a crown of cigarette smoke crawling lazily in the air above the man and Clint can make out the glint of grey-blue eyes, turned to look down the street the way Clint came.

Then they're in and his brain gets back online and he remembers— Coulson never goes out before an op, much less for something like a smoke break. Coulson doesn't smoke. He certainly has no good reason for hanging around in this part of town.

Clint thinks about the chisel of the man's jaw in the glow of the cigarette and feels like he kind of missed an awesome opportunity there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bar is Ginki Kids in Bahan Township, Rangoon, Burma


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to [jktyao](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jktyao) for the beta

Clint crowds Matthew up against the door when it closes behind them, planting his elbows on either side of the man's head and fucking his tongue into Matthew's mouth. Matthew responds enthusiastically, sliding his hands under Clint's shirt and up his sides to thumb at his nipples. Clint pulls back for breath, panting heavily; he rolls the length of his body against Matthew's, enjoying the bright twinges of sensation coming from under Matthew's fingers.

He spends a minute rubbing their cocks together through their pants, relaxing into the warmth, before he steps back to pull his shirt over his head. They shuck their clothing in a couple of quick moves and Clint grabs condoms and lube from his back pocket before tossing his pants to the side. He leans forward again into Matthew when they're both naked, skin against glorious skin, loops his hands around to knead at the muscles of his ass. He ducks his head down to nip at Matthew's lips and stares into the fractals of his irises. He likes this, he thinks, none of the frantic energy of brief adolescent conquests and all of the pleasure.

He shifts to look at the blue-black ink on Matthew's skin, now that he has a better view. The tattoo on his collar is part of a larger design stretching onto his shoulder, a short list of names and an Australian Army crest. Clint's a little surprised.

"RAR," Matthew tells him, tracing his gaze, "Third battalion rifle company. Lost them from Namibia to Papua New Guinea." He shrugs. "It was a long time ago."

Clint almost shivers at the thought of death and capable hands holding him down but smacks himself mentally instead because dude, not the right reaction when someone tells you about his dead buddies. He thanks and curses his magnetic attraction to military men and contemplates how exactly his gut knew that this guy, of all the similarly balding middle-aged men in the bar, was once military. Of course he found the only serviceman in the bar.

He doesn't feel too bad about it, though, gives himself a good excuse for not living up to his name. If the man was last deployed in Bougainville during the civil war and the dates on his chest are the end of his tour, it really has been years since. His hands don't have gun calluses, he doesn't check the exits, a thin layer of good living is starting to show around his waist. Clint rubs his thumbs over the divots at the base of Matthew's spine. Not that he's complaining.

He realises that Matthew's waiting for him to say something. "US Marine Corps," he offers, "Been a while for me too." Half truths and redacted files. He doesn't think about his old off-the-books SOC team much.

Matthew breaks the stillness and traces the muscles of his shoulders with firm hands. "Mm, thought so. Figured you for a soldier, the way you moved."

Both of them ignore that Clint is very obviously still combat-ready, from the tension in his limbs to way he cased out every place he passed through on the way here. Definitely not the picture of a long-retired soldier.

Clint hums and sucks one of Matthew's earlobes into his mouth. Matthew tilts his head to give Clint better access with a pleased inhale, licking his lips. Clint worries at it, reaching a hand down to loosely circle both of their cocks, then lets the ear slide out with a pop.

"Need to take a piss before we get going?"

"Yeah," Matthew breathes beneath him, pupils blown."Yeah, let me just..." He jerks his head towards a room to his left. "Bedroom's second door down." Clint trails a hand down his chest, fingers brushing through the light scratch of hair, before letting him stumble off.

"I'm all cleaned out," Clint calls after him. He gets a groan in response.

 

 --

 

They get down to business real fast.

Clint sinks down to his knees when Matthew gets into the room, rolls the condom on him and takes his half-hard cock down to the root. Matthew sighs and his hips jerk involuntarily and Clint takes it, reaching his arms around Matthew's ass to hold on as he tongues the head of the cock in his mouth. Matthew can take a hint, and Clint gets a very satisfactory round of face-fucking before he holds up the lube he'd liberated from his pants and reminds them both that there can be better things if they can get around the metaphorical corner.

Matthew has Clint on his back with his legs spread and his ass lubed up in no time and Clint can't stop himself from begging just a little for a good, hard fuck. Matthew adjusts his condom a little and crawls forward on his knees, lining up his cock with Clint's hole.

"God," Matthew hisses as he sinks his cock into Clint, "yeah, take it. You're doing so well. Look at you."

Clint takes deep breaths and adjusts his grip on Matthew's clattering headboard, watching his ass get filled inch by inch and imagining it's Coulson's fingers stretching him out and Coulson's cock fucking its way in. His untouched dick throbs a little more insistently from where it's lying on his abs and his balls ache. He gives them a brief pull.

Matthew waits a second when he's all settled, then starts moving in long strokes, watching Clint's face attentively. Good man. Clint's getting little noises fucked out of him, skin rubbing against one large hand planted by his ribs for support and another smooth around the curve of his right asscheek. He arches his back and Matthew dips to worry a nipple.

"Give it to me harder," Clint breathes into the top of his head, back bending some more as jolts of pleasure travel from Matthew's mouth to his dick, "fuck me, oh, ffffuck." He angles his hips so Matthew's cock skips right on that sweet spot and the man himself– bless his heart– pounds him harder just like he asked.

"Yeah, yeah, just like that." he grits out.

Clint takes a hand off the headboard, reels him in by the back of his neck for an open mouthed kiss. Matthew moves the hand on Clint's ass to Clint's dick and Clint lets out a gratified moan.

It's all very vanilla, which is basically what he asked for, and Clint's getting near the edge when Matthew leans down to mouth at the crook of his neck and thrust so they're sliding torso to torso in their sweat. Clint has the image of Coulson leaning down to bite a bloody brand into his shoulder the moment Matthew decides, on his own initiative, that marking the skin by Clint's neck with his canines is a good idea. Clint won't ask where the impulse came from because he comes the moment he feels teeth sink into his flesh. His eyes roll up and he curls shuddering around the hand on his dick, crying for sir with a soft, wrecked voice.

A glint appears in Matthew's eye when he hears what Clint is whimpering and Clint distantly bemoans another lost opportunity.

Clint stretches a little and enjoys the light post-orgasmic burn in his ass as Matthew follows him over with a minute or so of concentrated thrusting. He pants almost silently into Clint's hair with his eyes screwed shut and Clint pretends not to hear the quiet 'Eli' that slips through. He feels Matthew's cock pulsing in his ass and fuck if that isn't hot, he'd let Coulson come in him anyday. He remembers the flared plug he's got in the bedstand of his SHIELD quarters and almost gets hard again at the thought of walking around with a load or two of Coulson's inside him. Jesus.

The tension in Matthew's muscles unspools and Clint relaxes his legs down onto the sheets, Matthew rubbing Clint's cum into his skin. He slips out of Clint with a wet plop and ties off the condom, then dabs some tissues in the bathroom with water to wipe off Clint's skin.

"Sorry about the biting," he says after he tosses the wipes.

"It was great, no worries," Clint replies absently. No broken skin, bruised mark that he can thumb when he's jerking off? No worries at all. He rolls off the bed after the haze passes and washes his face in the bathroom. He comes back out and dresses in front of Matthew lounging naked on the bed, grabbing his tube of lube and stuffing it back in his pocket. He straddles Matthew's lap and kisses Matthew goodbye slow and sweet, a 'thanks darling' sort of thing, then shows himself out.

 

\--

 

Clint lets himself into the temporary base of operations (read, hotel room) at around 3 in the morning. Coulson's asleep on one of the double beds– no, scratch that. Coulson _was_ asleep on one of the double beds until Clint opened the door. His left hand is visible on top of the sheets but Clint would bet a lot of money (he's not entirely sure how much he has in the account, it's been a long time since he's felt the urge to count his pennies) that his right hand is gripping a handgun underneath.

"All clear, sir. Sorry. Go back to sleep."

Coulson's face relaxes almost imperceptibly at the sound of Clint's voice and Clint knows that he's dropped right back down. He brushes his teeth, strips to his boxers, and slips into his own bed. He falls asleep with the faint smell of cigarette smoke in his nostrils.

 

\--

 

Clint arrives on-site a good four hours early and scopes it out again. He's about a third of a mile from the restaurant, at the window of a high-rise that's being renovated, so he doesn't have to worry about being identified by the sonic crack of his gun. There's a clear line of sight to the outer tables and two tables by the windows, a general area where the receptionist they've paid off is meant to seat his traffickers. Coulson's giving him updates on crowd movement and police chatter while he assembles his rifle; he checks over the range settings on his optics, logs the weather conditions and barometrics as they change. It's hot and humid, like every day they've been here, and while the heat won't drag his bullet the wet will.

He leaves the rifle by the wall, scope covered, and watches from the window. He's lined up the bullets he'll need on the inner sill, two three-inch match-grade beauties glinting in the sunlight.

The marks appear in the restaurant right on time and the receptionist does what he's been paid to do. Clint calls it in and Coulson relays the go-ahead. He chambers the first round and uncaps the scope on the assembled rifle and sights each man, moving up and making adjustments for gravity and humidity. He checks the wind with the tumble of leaves on the sidewalk and lines up the first shot, finger off the trigger.

A steady thrum of anticipation and arousal is starting to build in his shoulders and he waits until he's relaxed completely again. Rigid muscles could throw his shots and he can never miss.

He takes deep breaths. Fits the rifle into the curved flesh of his shoulder. Moves his finger on the trigger.

In the stillness between inhale and exhale, he squeezes, and red blossoms on the first man's temple.

Clint shoves down the roar of arousal that surges like a typhoon under his skin, ejects the cartridge and chambers the second round in a quarter second with the mechanical precision of a man who kills for a living.

He sights and blows out the second man's brains with the reedy sigh of a man who kills for pleasure.

 

\-- 

 

Clint cleans up and checks his watch and discovers that while he doesn't have the self-restraint to keep his hand out of his pants until he's back at HQ, he does have the time to take care of Clint Jr. right now. Fortuitous. Clint taps into the comms and lets Coulson know he'll be taking ten, feeling resigned.

"Copy that, Agent Barton. I'll see you at extraction."

Clint turns it all off and replays the way his name sounds from Coulson's lips, rubbing his cock through his tac pants. He chubs a little more thinking about Coulson's wet mouth and gets his pants down to a more manageable position, squirts a little lubricant from the tube he took out last night. He starts off with a few firm pulls and gets to work making the most of his ten minutes.

 

\-- 

 

Clint's bent over his dick away from the window with a finger up his ass and maybe a minute away from blowing his load when he feels the air shift around him. He gets his hands out of his pants and around a pistol as quickly as his endorphin-drowned system will let him, but his unannounced visitor removes the gun from his hand before he can thumb off the safety, grips him by the muscles of his neck, and pins his face to the concrete in a series of blisteringly fast moves. His legs are sprawled out under his attacker– height and grip say male– and restricted by his tac pants(and how embarrassing is that? Caught with his literal pants down), but Clint would definitely have gotten an elbow in the guy's stomach if the man hadn't immediately ordered him in Coulson's voice to stand down.

Clint freezes on the floor. His dick also twitches because goddamn, Coulson just took him down like he was a probie and competence is fucking sexy.

Coulson does not sound amused. Clint imagines the court-martial waiting for him a short plane ride away, but his rock-hard dick is not getting the memo, class act. Coulson flexes the hand he's got on Clint's neck until the pain squeezes an embarrassingly high whine out of him because _fuck that feels amazing_. No, shit, wrong noise, fuck. Clint tries not to remember what disgust looks like on Coulson's face.

"Sir, I can explain," Clint grits out. He tries to adjust his hips a little without being obvious because his face isn't the only thing getting smashed into the floor.

Coulson doesn't say anything, but plants his elbow in the middle of Clint's spine, grabs Clint's hair, and pulls hard with his fingers, using his knuckles to keep Clint's skull against the ground. The pressure changes the angle at which Clint's cheek is being mashed into the floor and he can't form words anymore, it's too hard. His dick is too hard. He tries grinding his dick into the floor. It's kind of difficult, because Coulson's other hand is sliding over the finger-shaped bruises on his hips and pulling up so his ass is in the air. He relishes the burn in his scalp and the low thrum of aching bruises under Coulson's hands as he relaxes, breathing wetly into a growing patch of saliva-damp concrete.

Wait, what the fuck?

"Sir?" he asks hopefully, assets now bared to the audience behind him. Coulson's knuckles brush the back of his balls and Clint's hips twitch involuntarily.

Fuck it, Clint thinks, it's not like propositioning his handler is going to make things much worse. He hopes no one's listening in.

"Sir," he says levelly into the concrete, "If you have intents of a carnal nature involving my ass and your cock, I'd like to inform you that I am one-hundred percent on board. I am so on board that you'll owe me a workplace award for enthusiasm by the time we're done here. If you do not, for the love of God please pretend I haven't said anything."

He can feel Coulson's gaze when it alights on his recently fucked-out asshole. He holds his breath. Never has he hoped for his backside to win someone over as he hopes now.

Finally, Coulson speaks.

"So this is what I'll get, Barton? Sloppy seconds?"

Clint groans internally. Really? Come the fuck on, sir. Coulson sounds pissed in a weird way, in a way Clint's never heard him before, biting off each word like his jaw is slightly stiff. The man's index finger unexpectedly slips into Clint and he shudders when Coulson's trigger callus scrapes by the sensitive ring of muscle. "You're still loose. How long ago exactly was Mr. Jeffrey screwing you into his mattress?"

Clint can't take Coulson saying things like that, it's destroying his ability to think. A cap snaps behind him and he flinches as something cold and wet touches his ass. Oh, shit. Ohhh shit. Coulson is lubing up his ass. His brain demonstrates its inability to process this information. He barely manages to scrape out a breathless "dunno" before the pressure of a newly introduced middle finger on his prostate draws him back into making needy noises and contemplating the contact-free state of his dick. His dick, which needs...contact. Something like that.

Wait, wait. Pause again. Mr. Jeffrey?

"Agent Coulson sir, did you seriously run a background check on the guy I picked up for a quickie?" Clint sounds incredulous but there's a blushing heat slinking down his spine. It must have been Coulson with the cigarette last night, then. He feels cared for, in a really roundabout and intrusive way. Speaking of intrusive, he also feels the fingers in his ass still. Damn. He didn't mean for him to _stop_ , for Christ's sake.

"Agent Barton," Coulson says after a pause. He resumes shoving his long, long fingers into Clint's ass. "It has recently come to my attention that you really wish it were _me_ screwing you into variegated mattresses."

This is not incorrect. Clint moans quietly and clenches his asshole around Coulson's fingers.

"I must make it clear to you, Agent Barton," Coulson does something with the callused tips of his fingers and Clint jerks helplessly into the sensation, "that I do not _share_." He punctuates with another rough scrape of his calluses and a thumb pressed firmly against Clint's perineum and wow, Clint would like to say that Coulson's possessive thing? Sounds abso-fucking-lutely fine. It also gives Clint warm fuzzy sparks in his chest, which he's going to ignore.

"Please sir," he breathes. The hand in his hair tightens and his whistly breath jumps a bit in pitch.

"It has also recently come to my attention," Coulson continues rubbing his thumb against Clint's perineum as if Clint hasn't made a sound, "that you enjoy your work much more than anyone has previously realised."

Clint tenses, but forces himself to let his guard down. Not much he can do about that now. He would clap obnoxiously if his muscles weren't weak with the reality of Coulson's fingers plunging in his ass because hello, understatement of the century.

"And I want you to understand–" oh, he's still talking "–that SHIELD welcomes and encourages such dedication to the work, as it were."

Clint makes a try-the-other-one face, and then remembers that no one can see it. "Try the other one, sir," he croaks out.

Coulson takes his fingers out and spreads Clint's cheeks. Clint hopes it's for a better look. He lets up the pressure on Clint's head and Clint shifts around until he's more comfortable.

"You've been relatively isolated since you started with SHIELD so you may not have been completely aware of this, but it would be incredibly naïve to suggest that SHIELD is made of good people," Coulson murmurs, his breath caressing Clint's twitching hole. "We're all monsters, Agent Barton, one way or another."

Clint feels time slow. He has to ask.

"What's your poison then, sir?"

Without warning, Coulson moves the hand gripping Clint's hair to shove hard between Clint's shoulders, grinding Clint's collarbone and chin into the ground, clamps a brutal grip around the bruises on Clint's hips, and presses his suit-clad erection against the cleft of Clint's ass. Clint shouts and tries to rub against it all, hands scrabbling but unable to reach anything.

"You are, you psychotic little shit," he says in his perfect, mild Agent voice.

That's not really an answer. Regardless, Clint feels electricity skipping along his nerves and his asshole clenches.

Coulson leans back and Clint lets out an ugly groan as he scoots back more to get his ass up to Coulson's waist so Coulson can better pound him when he finally gets around to it. All this talk and touching has him really fucking turned on, and every time he does his habitual check-around he's reminded of the neat little holes and the blown-out skulls he's delivered today and it's all so good.

Any day now. His dick is so far from the ground and it's really fucking unconscionable that his pants are too low to rub his swinging cockhead against.

Instead of sweet cock in his ass, though, he gets "Put your clothes on and clean up, Agent."

"What the everloving fuck, sir," Clint manages, and he flips over as Coulson releases him from the floor. Clint splays his legs as much as he can so his cock thumps lewdly on his stomach, just in case Coulson doesn't get what he's turning down here. Coulson stares at the display unabashedly and smears the precome from Clint's slit with his thumb. Clint shivers at the light brush and lets his hips roll. Coulson's still wearing the same expressionless 'unassuming government lackey' face he always does and it's kind of hot.

Coulson wipes his fingers on Clint's clothes and stands up. "I'm not fucking you on the concrete floor of a construction site in a developing country, and there's private security coming up the stairwell." He removes a pistol from his shoulder holster and checks the chamber. "Someone noticed and called it in, bad luck. Shoot to kill, the rest of your ammunition is safe to use. We'll talk when we lose them. Touch your dick before then and I'm writing you up."

Clint looks hazily at the unacceptable distance between Coulson's fingers and his dick and the sizeable and slightly wet outline in Coulson's slacks and figures that things are as they seem, as is usual with Coulson. He takes a breath to calm down a little and secures his sidearm, stiff cock hanging out. "Fuck you, sir, fuck you very much. You planned this." He gets a raised eyebrow in response.

What Coulson gets off on might be getting clearer. _Shoot to kill_ is a unmistakable benediction, and Clint is really looking forwards to 'talking' when this is all over. He adjusts his dick carefully as he zips up— it's not letting up any time soon— and prepares to get his hands dirty.

His mouth goes a little dry and his dick throbs painfully when he realises that Coulson will be there getting bloody right beside him. Such a good day.

Clint feels a twinge of guilt when he thinks about how messed up it is for him to kill people as foreplay. Uh, sort of a good day.

He shakes it out of his head. In a blink he's shoved his insistent arousal to the backseat and the world's greatest marksman heads down the hallway with his over-qualified handler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter should be up within the week, I hope. this is proving itself a fruitful adventure in finding various ways to describe sex acts


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, please enjoy some hot sex with clint's commentary

Clint takes point, handgun from his thigh holster in front of him and a bowie knife clutched underneath in his supporting hand. He has to shift his weight to compensate for the disassembled rifle on his back; close-quarters combat isn't his specialty at all and he hopes he doesn't have to get too close. Coulson seamlessly moves to the rear, and Clint quietly appreciates how they work like a well-oiled machine. They haven't been operational together for very long compared to some of the other specialist teams but they've earned their reputation at SHIELD as the best of the best. He thanks his lucky stars; he's got it so good now, life has never been smooth for him but now it's like silk sheets across his skin. Doesn't mean he's not waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Sitrep?" Clint murmurs into his earpiece.

"Small force in the eastern stairwell, two floors down and moving fast. Video and radio say five hostiles. They want you alive." The understood _they don't know I'm here_ goes unspoken. "I'll jam their signal upon contact. No sign of backup."

Clint knows from his morning assessment of the building that the western stairwell is impassable and the elevators are out of commission because of construction. He heads off towards the eastern stairwell at a steady pace, reviewing the floor plans in his head. He'll pick them off one by one as they come onto the landing and navigate the dividing drywall and the off-center entrance. Without Coulson, Clint would have just rappelled down the façade on the south side, into the alley between this building and an apartment complex. Unfortunately, he only has equipment for one. Coulson knew that. 

Clint suppresses the giddiness that threatens to wrap his lungs as his ears pick out the muffled sounds of boots ascending the stairs. He's never had anyone along for the ride, for good reasons. 

He settles in a crouch and glances around a corner into the short hallway that leads to the stairwell door in order to gauge the target area, silenced handgun and knife at the ready. 

"Contact in three, two, one," Coulson whispers behind him. 

The door swings open and the sounds stop; Clint waits for the sound of rustling fabric— point man giving the all-clear— before leaning out into the hallway. Clint's gun coughs when the first man's forehead appears, and immediately again the moment the man drops enough to expose the supporting hand of the team member behind him. Shouts echo down the stairwell in pain and alarm; heat flashes in Clint's belly. 

Clint surges forwards silently, sticking to the wall away from the stairwell's line of sight and ducking around into what looks like an empty walk-in closet of some sort. He needs to change position before the second man narrows down the trajectory of the bullets and tells his buddies. He can barely make out Coulson's feet padding along behind him over the commotion. 

"Five bucks it's a flashbang," he says, anticipating the hostiles' next move. He shifts to face Coulson while pulling out a lone ear defender from his pant pocket; the communication tech in his right ear doubles as an external noise canceller with the press of a button. He hopes the fabric of his pants looks to Coulson like it's stretching as obscenely over his cock as it feels. 

Coulson gives him an unimpressed look. He's already got his ear protection in, the bastard. "No point betting on something so painfully obvious," he replies through the closed-circuit comms, attention back on the men on the landing. Clint hears them dragging their dead comrade behind the wall and rushing the other guy downstairs for medical aid. 

Lucky man; he'll be the only one in his detail alive by the end of the hour.  

Clint turns back towards the hallway, putting his ear defender in and following Coulson's example. 

He's caught completely off-guard when one of Coulson's hands sneaks around his waist to palm at the bulge in his pants.  

A quiet but vehement "Jesus _fuck_ " slips out of his mouth. Coulson kneads his package with the delicacy of an arm wrestler. Clint's knees go a little weak. 

"Speaking of painfully obvious," Coulson says smugly. Wow, totally unnecessary. Clint would roll his eyes in exasperation, but he's already this close to doing it in pleasure and they're kind of in the middle of a firefight. 

He opens his mouth to reply but his eyes register a flash of moving fabric by the stairwell. He shifts to retreat behind the wall and Coulson catches on immediately, letting go of Clint's pants and stepping in tandem with Clint to place the wall between them and the grenade. Clint keeps an eye on his view of the hallway.  

He only has to wait a second before the dark shape of a grenade canister flies a few meters past their room across from Clint's original shooting position. Clint turns his face to the crook of his elbow before the canister reaches the ground and leaves his mouth open to allow any potential concussive pressure to equalize. It would be better if there was a goddamn door attached to the goddamn doorframe to help with the shockwave that's incoming. Their partial cover will have to do. 

The blast is audible through his ear protection and he can see the brief outline of blinding light through the translucent red of his skin, but both he and Coulson have been conditioned for this. The addition of good equipment and a wall make it a breeze to bear.  

Clint lifts his head and is acutely glad he gave the team out there the benefit of the doubt; if he'd covered his eyes a heartbeat later, the milked grenade would have blasted his vision to kingdom come. 

"Did you see the model? Repeating? Smoke?" Coulson asks as he looks up from his own arm.

Clint's pretty sure he saw hexagonal end-caps. "M84, negative."  

He edges to the side and waits uncomfortably for the hostiles advancing down the hallway to get near his line of sight. The smooth fabric of his tac shirt is starting to chafe at his peaked nipples through the sweat, not to mention the irritating rub of his waistband across his engorged cockhead. What he wouldn't give to have Coulson's tongue on it all right the fuck _now_.  

Coulson moves smoothly to the the other end of the entryway with his pistol ready. "Acknowledged. Finish up quick and I'll blow you over the corpses." 

Clint aborts a very strained attempt by his torso to whip around and settles for moaning feebly while his dick shudders though a few excruciating throbs. Coulson fucking reads minds, he swears. He tries to imagine Coulson on his knees in the wash of gore, lips wrapped around Clint's cock, and can't help a little spurt of precum. Clint just knows that there's going to be a mortifying wet spot in his pants if he looks, so he keeps his gaze up and tries to avoid thinking about Coulson's lips...around his...cock. He leaks some more. Fuuuck. 

Coulson straightens his cuffs like he didn't just promise his specialist sex so hot that the idea of it was shorting out Clint's brain. Clint's not sure his trigger finger will cooperate for a moment but when the remaining three men slip forwards on the opposite wall with quiet footfalls (still intent on his original position, maybe not as experienced as he thought) he steps out and opens fire without a problem. 

Coulson takes down the second man to Clint's first with a perfect double-tap and they both duck back behind the door frame as the third man falls back amid his own cover fire. The rain of bullets stops as he retreats to the stairwell. 

Clint is running fight progression sequences through his head, about to throw out a joke about how Coulson probably jerks off by the book too, when Coulson slinks across the hall and towards the dividing wall behind which their final target seems to be reloading.  

"Sir?" Clint murmurs into the comms.  

The corners of Coulson's eyes crinkle when he looks back at Clint's position and Clint settles back, curious. He blinks as Coulson pulls out a long black fixed blade with a profile like a filleting knife from his left sleeve, prowling over to the landing entrance and positioning his back to the dividing wall with his knife arm coiled.

Clint feels a little lightheaded from all the blood starting to go to his cock in anticipation. He's never gotten hot and bothered about anyone else's wetwork before, but if anyone was going to buck the trend, it might as well be Agent Fucking Coulson. 

The last hostile slips the muzzle of his gun out and sprays the area with bullets. Clint steps back. He isn't really sure why the guy didn't just, oh, I don't know, _leave for backup_?  

He hears the man get both hands secure on his weapon and advance into the hallway, still pumping rounds into the walls to cover his advance. Not planning on missing what Coulson has in store for the poor bastard, he drops to the floor and peeks around just in time to see Coulson's hand slam out across the man's unprotected throat. The blade flicks through thyroid cartilage like butter, forced through by an explosive power that makes Clint's mouth dry, and lodges in the man's spine. Coulson holds up the the man's dead weight with one arm, his trapezius jumping with the strain, letting the gore pump out on his shirtsleeve. The man is gasping like a fish and grasping at Coulson's arm, terrified at the blood spurting out from under his chin with wet gurgles.

Clin inhales sharply through his nostrils at the display. He wishes Coulson at least had his sleeves up, so Clint could trace the thick cords of muscle filling out Coulson's forearms in visceral relief as slick blood from the man's carotids soaks into his skin. 

He gets up and staggers out from behind the doorframe. The pressure of his waistband on his engorged dick is making it hard to walk. 

"Sir, your suit" is the first thing out of his mouth, because Coulson loves his suits and _there is blood_. _On his suit._

Coulson grins like a shark and drags his blade out of the man's neck. The dying merc crumples on the floor, spraying blood onto the landing. 

He reaches over Clint's shoulder to pull him in, leaving a trail of red where his thumb brushes Clint's cheek, then drops the blade behind Clint abruptly and grips his jaw. He smears the blood on his thumb over Clint's lower lip carefully. "I knew you'd like that," he croons. 

Clint goes cross-eyed for a second, because Coulson loves his fucking suits but he got blood on them for _Clint_. 

Coulson shoves him backwards in his moment of distraction, moving his feet into Clint's stepping space so he trips into the opposite wall. Satisfied with the way Clint's barely caught himself with his shoulders, Coulson drops straight to his knees and undoes Clint's fly. He shoves Clint's pants down to his knees and streaks blood all over Clint's sweaty skin, brings a condom up out of nowhere and rolls it on.

Coulson's breathing is getting a little short. Clint takes a good look the sight he makes, cock stiff and bobbing between gory thighs, and licks the blood off his lips. Yeah, that's pretty obscene.

Clint has to revise his observation when Coulson guides the full length of Clint's cock into the warm heat of his mouth in one gulp because no, _that's_ fucking obscene, oh Jesus fuck fuck fuck fuck

"Fuhhhngh," is all Clint can manage out loud as he arches into Coulson's mouth, head leaning on the wall as he rises up on his toes. Coulson takes the thrust like a pro but slams Clint's hips into the plaster afterwards with what Clint thinks, frankly, is excessive force, Jesus _Christ_ his ass hurts. But Clint can definitely follow directions no matter what his other handlers have said, so he glues his backside to the wall and lets Coulson work his magic. 

'Magic' may be too mild a word. One flicker-twist-rub of Coulson's tongue against his slit and Clint feels like he's transcending the fucking worldly plane. Getting blown by Coulson is a _religious experience_. 

"Why're you so good at giving head," Clint whines, trying to keep his hands from touching Coulson's hair because he hasn't been given permission and his tailbone is still throbbing pointedly from where it's pressed against the wall. 

Coulson grabs one of Clint's hands with his clean one and guides it to his own head, apparently tired of all the erratic movement. Clint takes the opportunity to map out the muscles of Coulson's shoulders, sliding his hands down from the crown of the man's head to feel them flex through his suit jacket. Clint's had _fantasies_ about Coulson and his suits. 

Reality has narrowed down to the blistering blue of Coulson's eyes and the thin lips stretched around the base of his cock, so Clint doesn't notice the man he left alive earlier coming up the stairs to check on his uncharacteristically silent teammates until the poor darling turns the corner and trips over his boots in shock. 

Clint's reaction is instantaneous. His handgun is back in his palm, safety off at the flick of his wrists and without a blink he fires a round into the man's throat. Dark arterial blood blows out, showers the concrete and gurgles and Coulson moans on his cock nostrils flaring and pupils blown watching the man die and _Jesus Christ he's coming_

 

\--

 

Clint sees white for a long while. 

He comes back to himself after an interminable time, eyes rolling down and convulsing with fine tremors.  Coulson's on the ground in front of him, condom tied off and tucked in a contaminant disposal envelope. Clint's softening cock is in his clean hand, and there's a self-satisfied curve to his indecently red lips. Clint's not going to make Boy Scout jokes about the envelope because that was an amazing orgasm and Coulson deserves a reward. 

He jerks a bit as Coulson tugs at the limp meat filling his palm. 

He lets himself run his fingers through Coulson's thinning hair a few more times, languorous in his post-orgasmic haze. "Fuck," he exhales with feeling. He shakes his head in wonder. "Fuck." 

A faint splashing sound prompts him to look at the man still bleeding out on the landing. The dark pools of blood and bits of throat and bone practically glow in his vision.  

"Are you serious?" Coulson's incredulous voice drifts in. 

Clint looks back in confusion. "Sir?" 

"You're getting hard again," Coulson says. He rubs at Clint's cock. Clint hisses.

"Still sensitive, sir." 

Coulson bares his teeth in the facsimile of a smile and gets up. He's perfectly put-together– he doesn't look like he went through a firefight _or_ a grabby round of oral sex in the Burmese heat, much less both. Clint, well. Clint can't speak for himself. 

"We're not done yet." Coulson strides to case the stairwell as he pats the bulge of his confined cock. "That aside, I certainly didn't expect your refractory period to be so short." 

"What happened to 'concrete floors in developing countries'?" Clint prods as he tucks himself back in his pants. He grabs the canteen from his rifle bag and washes the blood and sweat off of his face. 

"Is that a complaint, Agent Barton?" Coulson turns to lift a critical eyebrow at Clint before he disappears behind the dividing wall.

"Sir, no sir," Clint salutes smartly, jogging forward to take point again.

 

\--

 

They descend to the second floor and exit out a window to the alleyway in Clint's original escape route without trouble. Whoever's responsible for the team they neutralized will take care of cleanup once they realise that it's been gone too long without contact. Clint and Coulson just have to disappear into the crowd before the team misses a check-in or something similar. 

It's no problem at all. Coulson, for all that his dick is straining against the line of his slacks, pulls off 'meek businessman' effortlessly once he covers his bloody hand and sleeve with his shrugged-off suit jacket. Clint's tac gear and modified rifle pack make him look like a tourist so he's set. Both of them pull out sunglasses before weaving down the street, a few meters off from each other at any given time. Coulson leads the way and Clint watches for tails; once he's sure they're clear, he hums over the comms to Coulson to let him know. They start off towards base, wary of picking up observers on the route there.

Base camp is a suite on the second floor of a moderately pricey hotel, elevators and keycards and the whole sheding. Clint has no idea how Coulson manages to land them such sweet digs on a regular mission budget but he's not going to look that gift horse in the mouth, not when it's got air conditioning. 

Clint waits in the carpeted hallway for Coulson to unlock the door, slipping in after him to case the bathroom. Coulson works the main room, watching for shifted luggage or a misplaced chair.  

"Clear," Clint calls from the bathroom. Coulson answers back with the same, and Clint returns to the main room to enjoy the full blast of the AC unit. Among other things. 

The calm in Coulson's demeanour that he's so familiar with is gone. There's a brusqueness in his movements, a feral snarl on the curl of his lip and a dangerous light in his eyes and it makes Clint want to get on his knees and beg. Clint really thinks that Coulson should get out in the thick of things more, if this is what he turns into when he shoots people. 

Clint peels himself out of his sweaty tac gear, ignoring the fiery itch under his skin, and turns around to aim a few well-placed wiggles of his ass like some farce of a striptease. He knows Coulson's seen the old bullet scars and contractures and hypertrophic knife wounds that sweep around patches of his front and back, the cigarette burns that litter his chest and ribcage. He likes the machine he's built his body into and when he finishes his spin he can see on Coulson's face that it hasn't gone unappreciated.  

Abruptly, Coulson stills. Clint belatedly remembers Matthew's now-livid parting gift, sojourning somewhere on his neck and visible now that the raised collar of his shirt is gone. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to realise that Coulson might not take that well, much less Hawkeye, people-reader extraordinaire.  

"He decided he'd leave you a little something, is that right?" Coulson's voice turns deadly and soft as his blood-caked hand slides up to grasp Clint's neck. "Did you give him _permission,"_ he croons, hand tightening, "or did he just _take_?" His voice crackles with the promise of hellfire. 

Clint swallows so he can feel the fingers circling his throat. "Kinky, sir," he evades, flicking his eyes at Coulson's hands. "Never would've taken you for the type." Press harder, he doesn't say. 

Coulson doesn't release Clint's neck, eyes swiping down as if considering how to leave his own mark.  

"You'll get tested when Medical processes you," he instructs. 

Anger bubbles up immediately in Clint's chest, adrenaline and arousal making him quick to fight. "That was uncalled for," he spits, no longer relaxed with Coulson's thumb on his jugular. "Sir, I–" 

" _You_ are still sloppy from your tête-à-tête last night. _I'm_ clean and _I_ don't like how condoms feel," Coulson cuts him off, pinning him in place with a hard look. Clint leaks a little precum and forgets what he's pissed about for a second, because even though he's on the brink of riding his handler into the sunset it feels completely inappropriate to hear Coulson talking about his preference for bareback sex. 

Clint tries to retrieve his indignance but fails in the face of sex, in the future, with Coulson. Bareback sex. "Ok," he agrees readily. He licks his lips and refocusses his goddamn priorities. "You can get cum on me if you want. If that's the case." 

Coulson rolls his eyes but Clint thinks he can see his ears turning pink with arousal. He whips out two condom packets and Clint takes one graciously with a filthy smirk.  

Clint unwraps and slips the condom onto his erection and looks back up just in time to see Coulson leaning in. They wrestle over an open-mouthed kiss, Clint gripping Coulson's jaw with one hand and squeezing Coulson's hefty package with the other, slamming him against the nearest wall to keep him still while he grinds his cock into Coulson's thigh and nips and sucks in a frenzy at his wet cherry lips.

Coulson's a brutal kisser. Clint thinks he loses a little time with Coulson's tongue down his throat.  

"Get on the bed," Coulson tell him between searing kisses and strokes of Clint's handjob. Clint _maybe_ trips over himself to comply. His hands and knees sink in to the mattress and he hears Coulson unzip behind him.  

"I'm going to fuck you, Barton," Coulson tells him nonchalantly over the sounds of a condom wrapper crinkling. "I'm going to sink into your loose little hole and I'm going to _enjoy_ you. This is your last chance to run for the hills. I can't wait to feel you around my cock."  

Clint drops his shoulders down a little more and spreads his legs wider, canting his hips and licking his lips. Coulson's talking a lot but it's pretty hot. "Why don't you hurry up and get that fat rod inside me then, Agent Coulson sir," he tosses back in response. He gets a smack on the asscheek for his trouble. Please, Lord, let him get his dick in me soon, Clint prays fervently with his head hanging between his arms. His own dick bobs in his vision. If he gets any harder he's going to go blind. 

The mattress shifts as Coulson climbs on and he wrenches Clint's arms behind him, holding them at the base of his spine with one hand. Clint's head hits the sheets and he strains his muscles against Coulson's grip; when he realises he can barely move his arms, a curling heat sinks into his aching balls. He feels a lubed-up finger slip in his hole.  

Coulson squeezes in another a finger when Clint starts wriggling his ass around the first, then a third. 

After an eternity Coulson sprinkles more lube, pulls his fingers out, and replaces them with his cock without any fanfare. Fucking finally and God, does it feel good. He fucks into Clint with a few slow strokes, testing out the give and listening for signs of discomfort.

Coulson's free hand snakes up Clint's sticky ribs, rubbing at the masses of scar tissue scattered across his skin. One of his nails scratches lightly across the tip of Clint's right nipple and Clint jolts in Coulson's grip, breath catching. Coulson pauses at Clint's reaction and smooths the callused pads of his fingers over the areola, but carries on to venture over the bulging muscles of Clint's arms and speeds up the movement of his hips. 

Clint shifts his shoulders a little and Coulson moves his hand underneath Clint's torso, getting a sweaty palm around his dripping cock. From the angle that Clint's head is at all he can see is a sliver of the clear precum dribbling from his cockhead to the sheets and Coulson's balls where they're slapping against his own.

Coulson hammers in particularly fiercely and Clint lets out an undignified "FUCK!" before enthusiastically trying to twist back to meet his thrusts, Coulson's hand wandering back to grip the meat of his asscheeks for more leverage. Clint is so aware that he's going to have his handler's handprint on his butt tomorrow morning that his dick is now stiffer than it's ever been in his entire life.  

"Did you like that?" Coulson breaks the porn soundtrack of Clint's repetitive grunts. "Did you like those wet little bone fragments splintering out the back," he snarls as he shoves back in, "You sick fuck." Clint's toes curl. Coulson moves the hand on Clint's wrists to pull his hair. Clint groans.

"Sir, sir," he pants frantically, dried blood flaking off his skin, "I'm gonna come," and he pumps his cock as fast as he can with his arm in such an awkward position, pushing into his palm and then back on Coulson's cock like he can't decide which one's better and rubbing his thumb mercilessly over his cockhead and 

Coulson wraps a hand around the base of Clint's cock and balls. "No," he corrects, pistoning in steadily. "You're not." 

Clint jerks against the unexpected vise and lets out a cry of frustration, hands sliding in the sheets as he tries to dislodge Coulson's grip. 

"You fucker!" he shouts, "Let me, let me _please_ ," and he tries to rub his leaking cock against the bedcloth.

Coulson ignores him and leans down to scrape his teeth on the shell of Clint's ear, hand on his ass preventing him from moving his cock to the sheets below. "You can come after I fill you up with my load," he rumbles, matter-of-fact like they're in a mission briefing. Clint moans at the vibration against his neck and breathes noisily through his mouth because his entire body is on fire. He needs Coulson's cum in his guts like he needs air. Holy fuck. 

Clint struggles, muscles jumping, and Coulson immediately switches to a more languid slip-slide, bottoming out and then moving all the way back to plunge in again. Clint collapses resignedly, understanding that he's being given a moment to come back from the edge. Coulson's playing him like a fiddle with each filthy twist of his hips, he knows. He can't bring himself to care anymore.  

Something that is not skin brushes Clint's side and he shoves his head further to the side. He sees Coulson's balls again, but also the open zipper of his slacks, wrinkled shirting cloth, bunched-up tighty-whiteys, and jacket panels. 

Coulson's still fully dressed.  

Clint's brain blanks and he feels his cock jerk and splatter precum on the bed. Jesus Christ. He didn't even know this was a thing for him.

Coulson slips out of him and Clint barely has time to voice a protest before he's being rolled over and stuffed full of cock again. The new angle lets Coulson hammer directly into Clint's prostate with flawless precision, short jabs that force shallow grunts and an "Ohhh yeah right there" out of his lungs, and Clint's fingers scrabble across Coulson's shirt buttons as he tries to get his hands on Coulson's chest. Coulson just grabs his ankles and watches him fumble, calmly snapping his hips until Clint sees white at every smack of Coulson's abdomen against his inner thighs. 

Coulson leans in to suck a massive bruise over Matthew's hickey, and Clint almost laughs at the jealous bastard but his drooling cock jerks feebly on his stomach and he lets out a high-pitched whimper instead. 

He can feel the cockhead inside of him throbbing and he knows Coulson's close. He clenches his hole and rolls his hips to meet Coulson's thrusts. "Yeah, yeah, harder sir," he pants, encouraging. "Fill me up, come on. Give it to me." 

He finally gets his fingers past Coulson's shirt to scratch through the wiry brown hair on his chest, sliding his nails across solid pecs to fondle soft and puffy nipples. Coulson's whole body twists, head thrown back, thigh muscles straining. He pulls out of Clint and rolls the condom off to work at his cock with callused hands, twisting his grip around the end of each stroke and teasing his slit with his thumbnail. 

It's the hottest thing Clint's seen in his life. "Yeah, shoot it all over me," Clint groans with a final squeeze of his fingers.

Coulson doesn't make a sound when he comes. 

Clint watches him shudder once, twice, hot cum splattering in the crease of Clint's ass and on his loose hole, and then his sharp eyes snap back to Clint's face. Christ, Clint marvels dazedly, the man's perfectly put together even when he's shaking through his orgasm. The cum in Clint's asscrack drips and his mouth waters as he eyes Coulson's softening cock. Next time, he promises himself.

Clint reaches down, gathering Coulson's spunk in his hand, and starts to pump his own dick with the cum as lubricant. S _omeone_ here still needs to come. Badly. Clint feels like he's been edged for hours and really, he kind of _has_.   

Coulson spends a second pushing the rest of his load in past Clint's stretched rim with his elegant fingers. "Why don't you wink your pretty little asshole for me, Barton?" he murmurs. "Keep my cum safe inside." Clint lets out a choked moan and tightens his hole, hand slapping noisily against his abdomen. 

Coulson pulls Clint's balls and grips Clint's face, wafting over the tangy smell of dried blood. He leans forward over Clint's hands to shove his tongue in Clint's mouth, heavy and relentless.  

Clint arches into his fist, nearly there. "Teeth, sir," he pleads strainedly. "My neck?" 

Coulson pulls back, frowning. Then his face clears. "Good boy," he smirks. Clint thinks he finds that more sexy than he should, but it's also really hard to think at the moment.

Coulson rolls Clint's balls in his hand and settles his teeth over the join between Clint's neck and shoulder, next to his new hickey. Clint feels his balls drawing up and evidently so does Coulson, because he chooses that moment to bite down with enough force to break Clint's skin. 

Clint yells in pain, but he also comes so hard he might as well have blacked out for a good minute or so. 

When his vision refocuses, Coulson's still leaning over him, rubbing Clint's cum into his chest and belly and looking as smug as fuck. Clint's neck throbs pointedly.

"You'll need disinfectant for that," Coulson says self-satisfiedly, and gets up to rustle through Clint's field kit. Clint drops his head back and focuses blearily on the rapidly cooling cum trickling out from his hole.

 

\-- 

 

An hour before extraction, Clint sighs dramatically from where he's sprawled out on the pillows and scratches at a missed spot of dried cum on his chest.  

Coulson looks over from his phone. "What," he asks flatly. 

Clint shakes his head morosely. "I was making such progress, sir," he confides. "I was going to try to keep it down to maybe once every two months. Maybe even try for two and a half months. But the effort's gone to waste." He slants his eyes accusingly at Coulson. "I'm going to be constantly horny now and not at all for the right reasons."

Coulson just looks at him, says "Fantastic," and walks off to take a piss. 

Clint puts what's left of his brain cells together and thinks for a bit. Coulson's judgement has never led him astray and it's not like he was getting anywhere good anyways. He listens to the splashing from the bathroom and decides to give the pretense up, right there with his leg in the middle of the wet spot. 

 

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the porn passes inspection, because I spent way too long trying to scrounge up all the adjectives I've ever come across to describe dicks and various sexual acts and trying to make it all flow well. Learning experience etc etc, I had no idea writing porn took such effort. 
> 
> If you had to stop and think about something in the middle of a sex scene then I didn't do it right, so please, tell me if something trips you up! Comments/corrections/concrits are much appreciated.
> 
> I might be putting up a short pwp sometime centred around an excerpt that I removed from this fic. I somehow wrote a sensitive nipples kink into the last sex scene but it had a very different character to the rest of the piece, so I took it out and ended up working on that for a few days instead of finishing this one up. Cheers  
> //Edit: that pwp is up [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6969388) and features coulson with a thick dick B)


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